Fetters
by SensiblyScrewy
Summary: "Well, I must apologize," he answered, coldly. "But I'll have to decline the offer. I am quite content with my vocation currently and am in no need of another."    "I'm afraid it wasn't an offer, sir."
1. Prologue

_I disclaim._

* * *

><p><em>"Well I'm so above you <em>  
><em>And it's fine to see <em>  
><em>But I came to love you anyway <em>  
><em>So you tore my heart out <em>  
><em>And I don't mind bleeding <em>  
><em>Any old time to keep me waiting <em>  
><em>Waiting, waiting,"<em>

_-_**Lonely Boy, _The Black Keys_**

The car door slammed, bumping against his knee painfully. They could have at least waited until he'd _gotten in_. Dr. Crane shifted and winced, his arms pulling uncomfortably in the handcuffs and a sharp pain growing in his stomach. He'd attempted to surprise Batman with a new, supposedly more potent gas. Unfortunately, the surprise had been on him when the vigilante had turned the spray on Crane himself. Yet again. He'd had but a moment of panicked fumbling to apply the antidote. Which, _of course_, he hadn't fully developed and still had many annoying aftereffects. One of which caused a dismaying amount of nausea. But it wouldn't be a full day without the entire process seemingly tripling in discomfort, no thanks to some left over results of the gas.

Crane attempted to slouch forward to ease some of the pressure, his arms pulling together tightly behind his back. A grimace left his face with a scowl. Briefly glancing to his left, he did a double take.

"What the hell is this?" he hissed to the cop, who was just getting into the front passenger seat. The fact that they had another person in the back seat with him, that they failed to fear him enough they would actually put someone else in the vehicle, was an insult of the highest.

The kid across the seat glared at him, worriedly. Crane disregarded him, the tension in his body causing the tendons in his neck to bulge out.

The cop's tubby friend in the driver's seat responded instead. "Just sit tight, Avery. He can't do anything to you."

"Don't you ignore me, donuts," Crane said, baring his teeth. He tried to compose himself, but it was becoming increasingly harder. "Get the brat out of here."

When the only response was the rev of the engine, he rocked back and give the rear of the seat in front of him a good few kicks, growling indignantly. He immediately regretted it, as it provoked the discomfort in his stomach and he spent the next few moments bent over. He did his best to conceal his pain, but it was a lost cause. There were still some of the effects of the gas coursing through him. It felt like every nerve was vibrating, which did nothing for his queasiness. He could feel the stupid kid's eyes on him. Groaning quietly when the car made a sharp turn, he looked up through his bangs at the other passenger.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to stare?" he huffed, seething. Not only had the kid witnessed his childish temper tantrum earlier, Crane was now subject to having those two headlights glaring at him. And it had to be at this godforsaken moment. Tilting his head forward to hide his face, Crane took a deep, silent breath to compose himself. Then he took another. He slowly, carefully sat upright again, hands hidden behind his back, flipping his hair from his eyes. With a superior air, he turned his gaze to the kid, finding the other undaunted, still staring from beneath his cap.

Goddamn it, Crane was trembling. There must be some other effect of the gas, or the antitoxin. Or both combined. This is what he got for going out, half cocked, with some made from scratch antidote that he'd barely bothered to test. The drug business was doing alright, even if things had diminished a little recently, he should have left well enough alone. At least until he'd gottten his feet under him once again.

He would not admit to going out tonight for some weak attempt of revenge on the now apparently felonious vigilante. Even if it had, regrettably, taken him three months to get out of Arkham.

"Why the extra cargo?" Crane asked the officers, blinking cooly and turning to face them. He felt a little steadier now. The doctor was in.

There was no answer.

"Well," he began. "I suppose you could have just picked him up before you plucked me out of the big, bad bat's clutches." He wet his lips, suddenly regarding the boy next to him. His shoulders shifted subtly. "Or there could be some more nefarious plot afoot. What do you think?"

"That you're talking out of your ass," came the reply. Low voice, but decidedly not male.

"Rather touchy, aren't we? And," he said, placing the other under scrutiny. "Female."

She watched him carefully. Ah, yes, her chin, while it could be mistaken for an adolescent boy's in this light, was most decidedly a woman's.

"Please, no need to feel embarrassed," he jeered as he shifted his arms again. "We all have our own callings in life, whether it be psychiatrist or lady of the evening. I-"

She gave a yelp of disgust, but the cop in the front passenger must have been expecting something. Before she could even start toward Crane, he gave a loud, threatening shout and she stilled, glowering. But, he noticed, less at the policeman than at herself.

"Knock that shit off! I don't want you to give him any openings. Goddamn, suicidal…" The cop turned back around. So they did still fear the Scarecrow.

"Very touchy," Crane said, smoothly. He smiled pleasantly, a bit of dried blood from his earlier tussle cracking above his lips. The girl scooted closer to the door. Leaning his head back, he tried to slide his weight to somewhere more comfortable. His stomach gurgled and he grimaced again. "Bad day?"

"Extremely," she bit out, scowling at her shoes with pursed lips.

_Bit of a temper_, he thought. He watched the girl across the seat. "What are you being taken in for?"

As if ignoring him would make him go away, she turned her gaze out the window.

"Well?"

"Theft," she muttered, staring resolutely at the glass. She was visibly reigning in her emotions.

"Of what?" he asked. There was a faint clicking noise.

"Of nothing, I was arrested," she said, crossly, turning to him. She looked away apprehensively when she remembered who she was talking to.

He gave an easy smirk, leaning slightly toward her. "Come on."

"Something that didn't belong to me." Her mouth quirked humorlessly.

Crane raised his brows, turning to look out the window, bored if she wasn't going to play.

"I'm sure it was worth it," he said, mockingly. Or began to say before the impact.

* * *

><p>Crane threw himself to the floor of the car before the crash, hands, the girl noticed, somehow free of restraints. The car spun dangerously and she was thrown to the side, the seatbelt cutting into her skin. There was another collision and the car stopped. Her head connected with the window as she was flung the other way. Bright lights popped before her eyes. She was vaguely aware of a groaning sound, though she was unsure if it was coming from Crane or her own mouth. Or was it from one of the policemen? Soon there were shouts, then a sequence of gunfire and a few more shouts. Something was ringing in her head and it was hard to focus her thoughts. She felt like there was something she needed to remember. Suddenly, her door was thrown open and this time she was certain it was herself that was groaning, as she hung out of the car by her seatbelt. Someone undid it, pulling her out before she could fall. She was roughly put on her feet, yanked upright before she could keel over. Her head spun. What was she forgetting?<p>

"Aneta!"

Oh.

"We have been looking all over for you," came a deep voice, accented mildly.

"Marcovic," she mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut to dispel some of her dizziness. When she opened them again she was just as lightheaded. "Sorry, I got caught up."

"Well, you need to be not caught up. I send you on a simple errand, a favor, and what do I receive in return?" The tall Chechen stared expectantly at her. The men behind him were looking around warily, guns held tight. Their new boss was getting more and more reckless, she thought to herself. They had to be only just within the Narrows. To initiate a drive-by this close to the South Main bridge, was beyond foolhardy. Marcovic was getting cockier the longer his reign went on. Especially now that he controlled both Maroni's and the Chechen's districts. How he expected this would work out, she didn't know.

She shook her head; he didn't want her to answer anyway. He stepped forward, allowing him to look her closely in the face.

"I receive a mess. Look at this." He gestured to the crumpled car behind him. "Look at what I do for you, _moya semʹya_. Even after you disappoint me. I hope you are thankful."

He smiled a warm smile that failed to reach his eyes. She obediently nodded her head, unable to do more than that without swaying unsteadily.

"Good. Now," he said, looking over at a still form on the ground. "What shall we do with him, do you think?"

"That's Crane," she said as her mind provided the information. "Is he dead?"

Marcovic stalked toward the prone doctor.

"You know," he began, ignoring her. "This man really takes his time when supplying his drugs. And they are always-" He hand waved at his head. "-fiddling with my customers minds! I wonder if they would be better if he were... under management."

She frowned. "What are you saying?"

"I think Dr. Crane will be coming with us." Rubbing the beginnings of stubble on his cheek, he signaled two of his thugs forward to pick the man up.

"Mar- Marcovic, you really don't expect he'll do as you say?" she asked, incredulously. The man holding her arm began to tug her toward a waiting car. She half fell into the seat, her hands still handcuffed behind her back. Marcovic got in next to her.

"Oh, but he will, of course. We can be persuasive." He looked at her and considered her as if anew. "Aneta, in the University, you studied Science."

"I-" She swallowed, her mouth dry. "Barely."

"You sell yourself short. You did well Nika said."

Silently cursing her aunt's motormouth, she searched for a purchase, gaping stupidly. Her head was reeling and she felt a hint of nausea.

He nodded his head. "Yes. Yes, that is a good idea. You will help Dr. Crane. You will watch him and learn what he shows you. Soon, we will not need Dr. Crane." He smiled at her, patting her shoulder. "We will have you."

"Crane won't teach me anything. He may be forced into doing what you say, but he's not an idiot. He'll see what we're doing, Marcovic. He'll want to keep himself alive and he'll know not to give away any important information." It was futile, though. And she knew it.

"We shall just have to be very persuasive, then. Think of it as trade for not succeeding in your errand," he replied, rubbing his face again. "I am in need a shave."

So she had no choice. Refusing, or attempting to shirk off his orders, would end in pain and she'd been down that road enough for one night, her earlier fight still stinging on her cheek. If anything she should appreciate the command. For one, it meant Marcovic could see her sticking around long term, and while she'd prefer the opposite, she'd rather leave on her own conditions. And second… well, she'd worry about the second later. She was sure she'd be able to tolerate Crane. Positive, in fact.

* * *

><p><em>I think I need a towel. I don't know when I'll learn my lesson. Have a bad habit of starting and not finishing. If you like it or have any constructive criticism, I'd probably die of feels.<em>

_I'm going to go slink back into my hole now. Thanks for reading!_

**edit:** _Tried to fix it up a bit. Working on the next chapter made me feel completely ashamed of my writing in this. It's not much improved, but better. More editing before the end, no doubt._


	2. Chapter 1

_I disclaim._

* * *

><p>The world shook when he awoke, the bed beneath him wobbling on creaking legs. He immediately closed his eyes again as blinding light hit his vision. There was a pounding headache, well past beginning, trickling down from his temple to the rest of his skull. He had yet to move his arms or legs, but felt that to do so would prove them to be in a similar state. His chest, for certain, had been injured; each inhalation was becoming more painful than the last causing him to drop his breathing to a shallower scale.<p>

"You're awake," said a voice from above.

Bracing himself, Crane opened his eyes once more. After an effort to blink past the harsh light, he was able to take in his surroundings. The room was large and rectangular with four blank, white- perhaps grey walls. There were two sets of sturdy tables of either wood or plastic in the center and along the two longest sides of the room. The familiar glint of glass vials and flasks caught the light from atop their counters. At the end of the room stood a tall faucet that might have once been kin with a shower, but had evolved into more of a mangled cousin, complete with butchered toilet. The bed he laid in was positioned at the other end of the accommodation, set facing the makeshift lab, in full view of at least two low-grade video cameras. The thick door to the left had no handle on the side visible to him.

Out of Arkham, only to be captive once more. What new horror was this?

There was a short, thin woman standing at the foot of the bed.

"Where…" he began, but only managed a rasp.

"One moment," the woman stated before darting across the room, filling a glass she had pulled from nowhere with water from the faucet, and scurrying back to his side. She reached behind his head and supported him while proffering the cup. Regarding her with a pithy glance, Crane pulled a hand from the depths of the blankets, his left as his right felt strangely out of commission. He took the glass from her and drained it in one go, unable to help himself.

"Not so fast," she warned, but it was too late. His body was subjected to a brief coughing fit, the sharp pain in his breast increasing terribly. The woman helped him to sit up, quickly leaning him back again when the coughs had receded.

He laid still for a few moments while his breathing recovered. His right arm, he had noticed, was in a cast and his chest wound in a wrap, suggesting damage to his ribs.

"Where am I?" he tried again, this time the words forming properly.

"Hm," the woman hummed while pulling a gray lock of hair behind her ear. She seem to consider her options. "Out of the way."

He stared at her impatiently when she didn't provide more information. "Who are you?"

"You may call me Benitez. I'm a doctor. You were in an accident of sorts. What is the last thing you remember?"

He observed that she did not title herself doctor, merely asserted that she was one.

"… There was a collision with Marcovic's men. After the initial confusion, I attempted to leave the scene," he replied, the incident flashing in his memory. "When I was assaulted. I believe there were multiple strikes before I lost consciousness."

Benitez nodded her head, pulling up a waiting chair so that he did not strain his neck to look at her. "You've been in an induced sleep for over half a day. There are multiple wounds to the sternum: one broken rib, two cracked, and a pair of fractures in the forearm. Full recovery, I'd say, will take up to two months, perhaps more."

Appreciating her succinct manner, but feeling a growing urgency, he prodded her. "And the reason I am here?"

"You've been hired," said another from the doorway. They both turned to look finding another woman watching them as she swung the door shut with a quiet click. Crane glimpsed a broad set of shoulders guarding the other side before they vanished from view. His gaze flicked to the newcomer. She leant against one of the nearby tables, arms folded casually, yet defensively, as if she were uncomfortable with her environment. A prominent bruise was spreading across her jaw, indicating she'd been in a tussle within the past 24-hours. There was a hunch to her neck that conveyed her tall frame and she was of standard build, if a little more athletic. Short, wavy hair was pulled back and out of the way, dark strands still managing to fall in front of her face regardless. On the whole, unremarkable, but obscurely familiar.

"By whom?" he requested shortly.

"Who else?"

"I'm sure I have no idea." But she would have none of it and continued to stare at him.

"And what services does Marcovic wish of me?" he asked, conceding, though an answer was already forming behind his eyes.

The woman sighed. "Drugs, Dr. Crane. He was unsatisfied with your work before now, so decided to employ you in a more private sector. He feels he will be able to direct your output more… effectively from here."

"Well, I must apologize," he answered coldly. "But I'll have to decline the offer. I am quite content with my vocation currently and am in no need of another."

"I'm afraid it wasn't an offer, sir."

Crane met her eyes, angrily, and she responded in kind, her own gaze unapologetic, though understanding. It was then that he finally recognized her.

"You're the girl from the police car."

She nodded her head. "My name's Anna Avery."

"Pleasure."

"Likewise."

Pushing off from the table, Avery inclined her head to the two doctors and gave a quick series of knocks to the door. It opened and she left.

"I'd like you to rest some more, doctor. Your employment won't be starting for some time yet and you'll need all of the recovery time you can get," Benitez commanded, glancing away from the door finally as she stood up. She looked down at him with authority.

And despite having slept for most of that day as well as a consciousness of the rising amount of problems that far exceeded his quota for the year, Crane found himself closing his eyes, his breathing evening out within minutes.

* * *

><p>Crane had looked tired and haggard. There were a number of bruises littering his chest, trailing down from the welt on his temple growing larger as they slipped beneath the wrap. Yesterday they had seemed bad; today they looked more severe, contrasting harshly with his pale skin. Before, as she had been helping Benitez tend to him, Anna had considered the extent of the injuries. She recalled belatedly that the beating at the crash had not been his first that night, realizing once again that the man before her was in fact the fearsome Scarecrow. The man that groaned in pain as Benitez wrapped the cloth about his thin torso, white and clammy and shivering all over, having thrown up not two minutes before. It looked like he had abdominal pains as well. Anna had often been assured of her own mortality, but if she'd been at all innocent of it, last night would have convinced her in no uncertain terms.<p>

She made her way to Marcovic's office as she thought. It would be interesting working with him, if anything. The stories she had heard, even before he was known as the Scarecrow, intrigued her. He was once infamous among the Gotham elite for his intellect and his standing as Arkham's youngest director. Now, he was infamous for an entirely different reason.

"Aneta," Marcovic said with a smile. Anna entered the room, holding the door for a man on his way out. "He is awake?"

"Yes," she replied, shutting the door quietly behind her.

* * *

><p><em>Just for clarification, Marcovic calls her a different name because the Russian version of Anna converts to Aneta. I've fixed up the prologue somewhat, but it's still not really... good... I am completely embarrassed by it and won't say anymore. Special, awesome, amazing shout-outs to reviewers <em>**sax92**_,_ **HowlynMad**_, and_ **Didi715**_! It's good to have a nice response, so thanks a lot. _

_Thanks for reading and hoped you enjoyed the new chapter!_

_Screwy_


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